


Birds of a Feather

by SilverGrayAndMauve



Category: Glee
Genre: Dalton Academy, Gen, Humor, One Shot, rated for language, referenced animal death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-06 18:11:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16392620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverGrayAndMauve/pseuds/SilverGrayAndMauve
Summary: A closer look at the Warblers' oldest tradition, presented in a tale of responsibility, rivalry, revenge, and lots of birds.





	Birds of a Feather

It was the Warblers’ most sacred tradition that every new member be given a canary from the same unbroken line to take care of. The tradition was as old as the group itself, initiated by its founder in their very first meeting, and in one hundred and twenty-one years, there was never a new addition to the Warblers who didn’t get his own canary as a metaphorical manifestation of his voice, and as a symbol of his status in Ohio’s most prestigious show choir.

What the founder of the Warblers hadn’t counted on was the fact that the average teenage boy was not well-versed in bird care. Most of the poor birds died well before their life expectancy was up, due either to outright negligence or lack of understanding of their needs. Others got loose and flew away, their fates unknown to the boys assigned to them. The luckier canaries went to boys who either already knew how to take care of them, or who did their very best to learn. But while it was common for Warblers to lose their canaries one way or another, it wasn’t something they talked about. No one wanted to seen as a disgrace, so the boys who had failed to meet their canaries’ needs never brought them up in conversation, and never asked the other boys about their own birds.

Jenkins was one of the luckier canaries. Everyone who knew Pam Anderson knew that she loved birds of all kinds, so from the day her son brought home his bright yellow, chirping ball of joy, she made certain that the dear little thing would be in good hands. It meant reminding Blaine on an almost daily basis to feed her, refill her water, and clean her cage, and sometimes it meant doing all those things herself, but at any rate, Jenkins was healthy and happy.

Blaine eventually got the hang of taking care of Jenkins without needing his mother to remind him to, and he enjoyed her spirited singing and the way she fluttered cheerily about her cage, but he never got quite as attached to her as his mother had. It wasn’t like Jenkins was a dog, after all; she was nice to have around, but what use was there in forming an attachment to a pet you couldn’t play with? He hardly batted an eye at the thought of having to leave her behind for college one day. A canary was an easy enough pet to replace, and besides, she was really more his mom’s pet than his, anyway.

Pavarotti had also been one of the lucky ones. Kurt had known nothing about birds before being entrusted with Pavarotti’s care, but he had been a fast learner, and a dedicated one, going to Blaine and his other classmates for advice, and relying on books and Google to tell him everything he needed to know to give Pavarotti the very best life that he could. Everyone else in the Warblers had admired his enthusiasm for taking care of his little feathered friend, and they’d loved it when he brought him along to class or to Warbler meetings. There was just something about seeing a bird who was so happy and so well taken care of that never failed to brighten everyone’s day.

So it had come as a shock to all of them when Pavarotti’s life had been cut short anyway, due to health problems beyond Kurt’s control.

Kurt had been the first Warbler ever to admit publicly to having his bird die on him—and as such, Pavarotti had been the first bird ever to be given a proper sendoff and burial on school grounds. It was obvious that Kurt had genuinely cared about Pavarotti, and his loss had touched everyone—so much so that they had all joined in his funeral dirge without even making a fuss over the fact that he’d shown up to their meeting late and out of uniform.

Many of the other canaries who passed through the halls of Dalton were also very well cared for. As a matter of fact, every one of them was to begin with, regardless of where they ended up later. In order for every student who ever joined the Warblers to have a canary from the same line, someone had to be in charge of keeping that line going. Fortunately, that duty always landed on the shoulders of the most competent and dedicated members of the club.

At the end of every school year, when the new council members were elected, they were officially congratulated by the graduating council members, and appointed the responsibility of bird caretakers—or Dalton Warbler Dynasty Guardians, as the position was called. That meant not only becoming knowledgeable enough about birds to keep them alive and in good health, but also introducing new birds into the family when necessary, so as to keep the bloodline going without weakening it by allowing inbreeding.

Another very important part of the job was providing a name for each bird, and keeping a record of names used so there was no doubling up. This could be challenging at times, as it was customary to name the birds after famous singers. Every Warbler who was ever given this responsibility lived in fear of exhausting his resources of names of respectable singers, and having to resort to using a name unbefitting of a bird meant to represent Dalton’s sophistication and panache. No one wanted to be the one to present his fellow glee club member with a bird named Kroeger or Chesney or Vanilla Ice, so the naming process was often a stress-inducing one. On occasion, if the council could not come up with a good name, they would let the other Warblers submit name suggestions, and then put it to a vote—though that sometimes led to confusion about the bird’s namesake, if the person who had first suggested the winning name hadn’t specified which singer they’d had in mind. Such was the case with Perry (suggested by Blaine, in honor of Katy, and seconded by Kurt, in honor of Steve).

All three members of the council always shared the responsibility as Dynasty Guardians, either dividing the bird family amongst themselves, or volleying them back and forth like children of a divorced couple. So when the time came that the Warblers decided to elect a singular captain instead of a full council, the old heads knew that the new man in charge was going to have his hands full.

Sebastian Smythe was not someone who concerned himself with fitting in, or who wasted his time with a lot of sentimental feel-good crap. When he’d made the decision to join Dalton’s highly praised show choir, it had not been to make friends or to feel like he was a part of something special; it had been to put his musical abilities and competitive nature to good use, gaining himself the spotlight he knew he was born to stand in. It hadn’t occurred to him then that the rest of the club’s members would not share his singlemindedness, and it had come as something of a surprise when, on his first day, he had been given a birdcage containing Sinatra, his own real, live warbler, and been told totally unironically that the bird represented his voice, and that it was now his duty to take care of him. And later that year, when he had been named captain of the Warblers and found himself in the possession of not just one, but roughly a dozen of the twittering creatures, he had been utterly dumbstruck. He’d only meant to join a choir, not a fraternity that made a ritual out of pet ownership. He certainly hadn’t counted on being put in charge of a whole goddamn flock of birds, and a card catalog of their names that was alphabetized by genre. Where was he supposed to put them all? How was he supposed to tell them apart? Did birds have to get rabies shots? Did any of the nearby veterinary clinics even take bird patients? Was it good for them to stay in a cage at all times? Should he be reading up on how to take care of a canary, or how to take care of a warbler? What was the difference? _Was_ there a difference? And good god, did these blasted things ever shut up?

Sebastian was overwhelmed. It was enough work trying to whip his team into shape to crush the New Directions at Regionals, and now on top of that, he had to completely rearrange the furniture in his dorm to make room for an ungodly number of canaries. Whose dumbass idea was it to give a bunch of birds to teenagers and expect them to know what to do with them, anyway? It was a wonder none of the headmasters had ever gotten wind of this ridiculous tradition and put their foot down—nor had PETA, for that matter.

Nevertheless, it was a tradition he was expected to follow if he was to be respected as a leader, so he knuckled under and did his research on how to raise a flock of canaries.

It was not an easy task to undertake. The first few weeks, he had had scratches all over his hands and arms from breaking up fights, before it had finally occurred to him to get more than one aviary (not counting Sinatra’s solitary cage, which the other birds weren’t allowed in). He also had the feeding and the cleaning to deal with, the chirping keeping him awake at night when the birds’ body clocks got confused, that ridiculous name catalog, and the expectation of the other Warblers for him to breed the canaries, like that wasn’t an unreasonable requirement at all. And then there was the cluster of bruises he had gotten from tackling his roommate to the ground in a panic one day when he’d tried to spray aerosolized Febreze in their dorm to get rid of the smell.

He was clearly in way over his head, to the point that he found himself wanting to quit the Warblers altogether on more than one occasion. But he was stubborn, and he had his pride to think of. He wasn’t going to let a few birds get him down—especially not when he had a rivalry to win against that demure, kitten-eyed siren and his merry band of misfits (seriously, who did that Kurt Hummel think he was, infiltrating the Warblers and then charming their former front man into joining a rival glee club? The little snake).

No, sir, Sebastian was not a quitter. He was going to show everyone that he had what it took to be the best leader the Warblers had ever seen, even if it meant adhering to the stupidest tradition known to man. These birds were in his charge now, and he was going to be the best damn bird parent—or whatever the hell they called it—if it was the last thing he ever did.

 -

 “Grande non-fat mocha for Kurt?” the barista asked with an inquisitive look in Kurt’s direction.

Kurt nodded in confirmation. “That’s me,” he said, stepping forward and reaching out to take his coffee.

The barista smiled at him as she handed him his drink. “Here ya go,” she said warmly.

Kurt smiled back and mouthed a soft “thank you” in reply, and then he turned around and began looking for a place to sit.

It was an unusually slow business day for The Lima Bean, so there were several spots available, but Kurt hesitated to pick a seat. He wasn’t sure if he really wanted to stay and drink his coffee inside today, or if he wanted to go ahead and start on his way home.

As he slowly strode along, scanning the dining area and trying to make up his mind, he heard a familiar voice from the back corner of the room snapping at someone named Lansbury to be nice to her sister, and then telling Manilow that if he didn’t quiet down and stop breaking his focus, they were going _straight home_.

Kurt titled his head to the side in confusion. He was sure he knew who that voice belonged to, but he couldn’t imagine who it could be speaking to. Curious, he followed the sound over to the lounge area, staying off to the side and peeking around a nearby column.

He was surprised to find a very disheveled looking Sebastian sitting there alone, with a pile of schoolbooks, three cups of coffee, and a cage containing four little birds on the coffee table in front of him. Kurt made a mental note to never set his bagels on that coffee table ever again.

“ _No_ ,” Sebastian said firmly, flicking one of the bars on the cage in agitation until one of the canaries moved away from one of the others, looking affronted. Sebastian glared at it, and then turned to bird that the first one had been picking on. “There. It’s okay, Rosemary,” he said soothingly. Then with a haughty smirk, added, “She’s just jealous ‘cause your feathers are prettier than hers.”

Kurt cocked an eyebrow at him. It was the first time he had ever seen Sebastian do something nice (and flirting shamelessly with _his_ boyfriend didn’t count). He didn’t know quite what to make of it.

The moment ended abruptly when Sebastian turned his attention to another little bird, who had been twittering up a storm the entire time, and was now practically screeching. Sebastian let out a longsuffering sigh. “Manilow, will you _please_ shut up? You’re gonna get us thrown out, and I can’t even hear myself think.”

Kurt watched in amusement as Sebastian tried to reason with the little canary, shushing him repeatedly, until finally, with one last, soft chirp, it quieted.

Sebastian smiled. “Atta boy,” he said softly, lifting a finger to stroke the bird’s head through the cage. “Good birdie. Good birdie…”

Kurt couldn’t help but smile. In spite of his loathing for Sebastian, the sight brought him a warm feeling. It reminded him of the days he had spent studying in his room while Pavarotti kept him company.

As Sebastian turned his attention away from the birds and started again on his homework, Kurt let out a soft, wistful sigh. He missed Pavarotti. It had been so nice to have a little companion to look after, and to whistle back and forth with. He wished their time together hadn’t been so short-lived.

At the memory of whistling with Pavarotti, a wicked idea suddenly came over him. Slinking farther out of sight, behind a merchandise shelf right beside the column, Kurt pursed his lips together and let out a light, lilting whistle.

Manilow’s reply was instant and full of enthusiasm, and he flapped around excitedly as his ear-piercing chirps rang out.

Sebastian groaned, putting down his pen as he tried again to get him to be quiet. “Shh! Manilow! Shh! Come on, buddy, you were doing so good!”

Kurt peeked over the top of the shelf, smiling in satisfaction over Sebastian’s distress. He watched as Sebastian once again coaxed Manilow into calming down, and waited for just the right moment to strike again. As Sebastian started to relax and reached forward to pick up his pen again, Kurt saw his opportunity and seized it. He whistled again, this time making a nearly perfect imitation of the sound Pavarotti used to make when he wanted food—and he had to quickly duck as Sebastian’s head snapped up and he whipped it in Kurt’s direction.

“Sinatra, I swear to _god_ , don’t even get me started on—” Sebastian cut himself off, realizing he was pointing accusingly at a bag of coffee beans, and barking at a bird he had left at home.

Behind the coffee shelf, Kurt held one hand over his mouth, which he had clamped shut as though his life depended on it. His heart was pounding and his eyes watering as he fought the urge to burst out laughing. He had narrowly avoided dropping his coffee just now, but it would have been worth it if he had. For as long as he lived, he would never forget the frenzied look he had just brought to Sebastian’s face. It was absolutely priceless.

Kurt stayed completely still for a moment, listening for movement on the other side of the shelf. When he heard none, he realized Sebastian must not have seen him after all. He took a few deep, calming breaths to quell the laughter he felt threatening to emerge, and when he was sure he finally had himself under control, he chanced another look over at Sebastian.

Sebastian had turned his head away from Kurt’s hiding spot, and he was now rubbing his forehead as he returned to his homework. “I gotta invest in some sleeping pills or somethin’,” he muttered in a tired, husky voice. “You birds are tearing my last shred of sanity.”

Kurt perked up at his words, struck with inspiration once more. Just one last jab at Sebastian, he decided, and then he would be on his way.

Still imitating the pattern of a canary’s chirp, Kurt softly whistled the opening line to Irving Berlin’s _You’re Just in Love_ , hoping Sebastian was familiar enough with the song for his mind to fill in the lyrics.

Sebastian froze, turning white as a sheet, and it was all Kurt could do to contain himself.

Slowly, Sebastian turned his head toward his birdcage, staring at it with wide-eyed bewilderment. _Surely_ he hadn’t just heard what he thought he’d heard. It was impossible; canaries couldn’t understand English. And Lansbury, Manilow, McCartney, and Rosemary all looked as just as innocent and unassuming as any bird who hadn’t just taunted someone with a showtune would. And yet…

Sebastian opened his mouth, a question forming in his throat—and then, returning to his senses, he shook his head rapidly, and then grabbed one of the coffee cups in front of him and swiftly chugged all that was left of it. He swallowed it a little too fast, coughing and sputtering a little as he finished it, and he hurriedly set the empty cup back down.

“ _Merde_ ,” he gasped when the fit ended, holding a hand to his chest.

While he recovered, someone strutted loudly to the exit, yanking the door open with more force than necessary, and Sebastian heard a loud, throaty peal of laughter just before it swung shut.

Sebastian rolled his eyes at the disturbance. Some crazy Lima local no doubt. Was it too much to ask that if he was going to choke to death in a Podunk coffee shop, he at least be able to do so in peace?

Closing his books and gathering all his things, Sebastian made up his mind to get back to Dalton before any more nonsense ensued. He was never going to be able to focus with Manilow along, anyway, and with his luck, someone would probably waltz in and start singing at him next—and he was _not_ going to sit for that. He was in no mood to deal with this town’s insanity today, any more than he already had, and besides—he thought as he picked up his birdcage, eyeing it warily—in his current sleep deprived state, if he didn’t get out now, it just might start to rub off on him.

**Author's Note:**

> There's not really a point to this story, it's just a little self-indulgent nonsense. This actually started out as a meta/shitpost because I was wondering if Warblers passed the same bird around to every new member, or if they each got their own birds. The deeper I got into the multiple birds theory, the more ridiculous it got, and then it just took on a life of its own. And once I brought Sebastian into the equation and came up with the idea of Kurt reacting to seeing him in bird dad mode, I knew I had to write a one shot about it, so here we are.
> 
> Link to the song Kurt whistles at Sebastian here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2LAijDQ2cIE


End file.
